


This is Our Happy Ending

by LittleDarkling



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDarkling/pseuds/LittleDarkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylar always finds him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Our Happy Ending

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Seasons 1-3 to be safe. I honestly don’t remember when I wrote this.
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters belong to Tim Kring and co. I own absolutely nothing. This is a work of fan love. No infringement intended, no profit made.
> 
> A/N: Fair warning, not a happy fic

 

 

  Sylar is waiting for him when he stumbles back to his apartment. He can hear the heavy, uneven footsteps outside, an erratic shuffle of worn shoes on the dirty floor. A thud as the lean body collides with a wall and then finally silence as the footsteps stop in front of his door. He listens to the jingle of keys and then metal scrapping against the door. Twice, then three times a key actually makes its way into the keyhole, but that is followed by a soft curse as said key fails to unlock the door. It’s finally out of pure impatience that Sylar snaps the door open. Mohinder almost pitches face-first onto the floor. His stark black curls are windblown, tossed around his handsome, chiseled face. Still devastatingly handsome. 

He’s dressed in a worn black coat pulled over a gray t-shirt that looks soft to the touch. Sylar’s fingers flex against the chair, imaging the feel of the fabric. Mohinder wears a pair of blue jeans that cling magnificently to his narrow hips. Sylar wrinkles his nose at the reeking combination of stale smoke and sweat that wafts of off the clothing. Even the walk through the chilly night has not rid him of the bar. The young doctor grapples with the doorknob to maintain his footing and then looks blurry-eyed at the man sitting in his armchair.

“Sylar!” Mohinder almost looks happy. Almost. Sylar scowls.

“You’re drunk,” he says distastefully. Mohinder inhales sharply and ponders this fact for a moment.

“Yes,” he says at last. “An astute observation on your part, sir.” He stumbles over the threshold and bows to Sylar with a flourish of his hand. Mohinder has the charming accent of India’s upper-class. There is a remnant of the long years of British colonization that lingers close to the surface of his words; it is more pronounced when he drinks or is angry. Sylar slams the door closed, startling Mohinder enough to make him whirl around and nearly fall over the makeshift table upon which all his genetics books are piled. He blinks at the door and then looks at Sylar who has not budged from his seat.

“Now, that…” he slurs. “Is a cool trick.” 

He strips out of his coat shakily, losing his balance periodically as he does. The coat hits the floor in an untidy pile and he steps over it. “Did you know the Nomura jellyfish, when it is attacked, will release billions of sperm and eggs? It ensures survival of the species.” He smiles dazedly. “That’s a wonder of evolution, isn’t it?”  When the good doctor is drunk he spouts random useless information and he doesn’t seem to experience fear on any level at all. Sober, Mohinder is terrified of him. He tries to hide it, of course, behind a carefully constructed façade of bravado and self-righteous anger. (“You’re a murderer, Sylar. You kill innocent people just to, blah, blah, blah, blah.” Same shit, different day.) 

Sylar likes seeing Mohinder angry. It has a way of flushing his dark skin and making those black eyes blaze. It’s the way that lean body tenses and those slender, fine-boned hands curl into fists.  It is almost as exquisite as his arousal. Mohinder all but waltzes into the kitchen, feet moving to a tune that is plays in his head and Sylar finds himself briefly distracted by the graceful sway of his narrow hips. He watches the professor rummage around the kitchen, getting out a mug. He’s humming, some song Sylar doesn’t recognize.

“Mohinder.”

“Statistics suggest that our species is reproducing at a rate of two infants born for every person who dies. We don’t have enough land to sustain us at that rate.” He chuckles softly at this utterly humorless bit of trivia and resumes humming.

“Mohinder,” Sylar says again.

“Did you know the female hyena has an elongated clitoris? It actually looks like a penis.” 

“That’s fascinating,” Sylar replies. “I don’t care.”

“The…” Mohinder inhales sharply. “The North Anatolian Fault is actually one of the most active in the world.” Sylar’s eyes narrow.

“Mohinder—”

“The Sea of Marmara was created when the two sections separated, you see.” He pauses thoughtfully, as if he means to say something else, before resuming the slow, somewhat clumsy preparation of his tea. Sylar watches him silently for a few minutes, but Mohinder doesn’t speak again. In fact, he behaves as if he is utterly alone.

“Look at me.” The doctor continues digging around his kitchen. He doesn’t even pause. If there is one thing that Sylar cannot abide, it is being ignored. He focuses on a knife that is resting on the countertop. He raises his hand at the wrist. The knife trembles. He makes a quick, sweeping gesture with his forefinger and middle finger. The knife flies at Mohinder’s head, embedding into the wall just to the right. It passes so close it takes a small lock of hair with it. Plaster sprinkles down to the floor. And Mohinder still does not react. 

He clicks the button on the kettle to start the water boiling. Sylar grinds his teeth. Around the sparsely decorated, dirty room, Mohinder’s meager possessions begin to tremble. The cricket bat to the right of the door falls, toppling a pile of books. Mohinder opens up an elegant tin with a design of an elephant on it. He passes it beneath his nose briefly, eyes fluttering in pleasure at the aroma.

“Mohinder,” Sylar says through gritted teeth.

Mohinder begins to sing. Sylar is briefly distracted by it. He’s never heard Mohinder sing. Mohinder’s voice has a stunning resonance for a man who is usually too inhibited to let himself do this even when he is alone. That accent tangles around the words, fragile as the crystalline formations of ice on a frosty morning. Mohinder stops singing abruptly and stares at something on the wall. The knife, Sylar realizes. He is studying the blade embedded in the wall. It took this long for Mohinder to figure out Sylar had thrown anything at all. He strokes his fingers along the top of the blade.

“This is shiny,” he says and Sylar growls in frustration.

“You’re an annoying bastard when you’re drunk,” he says.

“You’re an annoying bastard when I’m sober,” Mohinder retorts, yanking the knife out of the wall and replacing it in the stand beside the toaster. Figures, Drunk Mohinder would only respond to him if it was in insult. Sylar rolls his eyes as he stands up.

“Well…I tried to do this the easy way,” he mutters. A sweep of his hand and one moment Mohinder is standing in the kitchen and the next landing hard on the bed and slammed down, arms yanked over his head. Mohinder grunts in pain, trying to twist his wrists in the invisible grasp. Sylar sighs as he walks toward the bed.

“I wonder sometimes, Professor, if don’t enjoy this treatment,” he says as he pauses to stand at the foot of the bed.

“You say that like you don’t enjoy it yourself,” Mohinder mumbles. 

His smile is like wet silk, clinging and uneven. Sylar looks around at dingy walls of the room, the dirty yellow drapes that might have been white when the room was still new. There are bars on the window that faces an alley and one wonders what fool might actually scale the wall of a shitty walk-up to break into the apartment of a penniless geneticist. Well, excluding Sylar himself. The wallpaper is no longer recognizable, peeling in some places, stripped away in others. There are water stains on the ceiling and he can hear the roaches scurrying beneath the floorboards. If Sylar concentrates hard enough he can smell Death in the walls. The entire room reeks of desolation and poverty. It’s not fitting for someone like Mohinder.

“Why do you stay in places like this? They’re beneath you.” He looks down at the doctor. “What is the logic? The shitter the locale, the less likely it is that I’ll find you?” He cocks his head curiously and taps his temple. “That’s no kind of logic at all.”

“What would you know of the logic of a sane man?” Mohinder replies blithely.

 Sylar scowls and splits Mohinder’s shirt down the middle, nicking the skin of his collarbone, if only to ensure the professor’s focus remains. He hears the soft, pained gasp and smiles at the tiny line of blood that wells up. He parts the fabric, enjoying the way that Mohinder’s muscles jump; the lines along abdomen and stomach tremble at the first exposure to the slight chill of the room. His torso, the color of drinking chocolate, is smooth, but for a fine dusting of black hair that begins below his navel and disappears into the waistband of his jeans. 

He squirms uncomfortably as his nipples harden instantly against the cold. Sylar’s tongue darts out to swipe across his lips. The action results in a warm brush of moisture across both of Mohinder’s nipples simultaneously. He groans, arching his back against the bed, but is pushed back down by an invisible hand at the center of his chest. 

Sylar stands over him, watching his captive writhe. He focuses on the delicate hollow of the professor’s throat, the tiny droplet of sweat that glistens there. He could easily strip the skin, right down the middle. Using that little spot like a zipper. It would take only a small flick of his hand to create a neat partition down the center of the dark, flushed torso. Open him up and expose all those slippery hot secrets kept in by flesh. But then he couldn’t put Mohinder back together and that would be a disappointment. 

Sylar tilts his head, watching the man’s chest rise and fall with each breath. He can see the life blood running through Mohinder’s veins, he can hear it. Blood inside living tissue has a sound akin to water churning. Too soft for most ears, but with Sylar’s heightened senses, he can focus on it and hear it quite clearly. When a body moves from rest to arousal, then the sound of the blood through the veins like flood waters raging through a previously quiet stream that can’t contain it. The sound of Mohinder’s blood at this moment is a rush. Sylar smirks in satisfaction. He undoes the belt buckle and yanks it out of it loops without having laid hands on it. Mohinder’s hips twitch.

“Sylar…” he breathes and it sounds like a plea. Sounds like he did when Sylar had been pinned to the ceiling, contemplating whether to kill him. Interesting how much pain and sex have in common when it comes to Doctor Suresh. One man’s torture, after all, is another’s foreplay. 

Sylar thinks briefly of stories Mohinder told him when he thought Sylar was that pathetic man-child, Zane. A story of the maharajas of Ancient India. He can imagine Mohinder, a prince of the age, wrapped in the finest silk and jewels. Or himself a king and Mohinder kneeling at his feet. Yes, he thinks, as he looks at the dark body stretched out upon the white sheets, this man was made to submit.

 He focuses on the button-fly of the jeans. The grind of the zipper is deafening. Mohinder tries to shift away, but he has no place to go. Sylar can feel the desire to cover himself itching at the surface of Mohinder’s consciousness, so he weakens his hold to see what the doctor will do. 

Mohinder places his foot flat against the mattress, leveraging his hips up as he tries to push himself back up the bed. Sylar catches him and pins him as easily as before. Mohinder breathes a soft sigh, but he doesn’t try to push away again. The alcohol that is making him so arrogant is also making him more pliant that he would ordinarily be. 

Sylar moves forward, standing between the doctor’s legs. He places one hand on Mohinder’s bent knee. Though he will never admit it, there is no amount of power that can replace this in his mind. Physical touch. The feel of the worn denim beneath his fingers, heated by Mohinder’s skin. Mohinder is watching him through half-lidded, dark, gleaming eyes. His unnaturally long lashes are shadows against his cheeks. Sylar feels himself shiver with a mixture of energy and arousal at the sight. Mohinder is a sacrifice laid out before him and he is certain the young doctor views these visits in much the same way. His penance for all that has passed between them in the last three years. His hand glides over the bend of the knee, down to the lean, muscled thigh, nails scratching across the rough fabric.

“Don’t…” Mohinder murmurs.

“Why?” 

“Can’t…” He groans softly as Sylar’s hand tightens, sending sharp shocks of pleasure shooting through his body. “Sylar, stop…”

“I don’t think so,” Sylar says.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he mumbles weakly. Sylar contemplates the question.

“I don’t know that I can tell you to your satisfaction. The English language does have its limits.” 

He sends another ripple through Mohinder, sharper and more intense than the last. A keening whine tears from Mohinder’s throat and his hips jerk spastically. He’s hard, cock straining against the confines of jeans. The scent of arousal is heavy. Sylar’s nostrils flair and his eyes go briefly black. “Maybe, to choose the simplest definition… affection.” Mohinder scoffs, tossing his head to the side.

“Then you misconstrue the meaning of the word,” he replies.

“Do I?” Sylar asks distractedly. 

He climbs onto the bed, sliding gracefully into the cradle of Mohinder’s hips. Mohinder shivers as the warm weight settles on him. The scent of Sylar is cold and clean like a fresh snowfall. His hands press into the mattress on either side of the doctor’s head as he bends to run his tongue along Mohinder’s stubble-rough cheek. He lips drift across his skin before moving to press a chaste kiss to Mohinder’s soft, chapped lips.

The agony of it is that Sylar is beautiful. Beautiful when he was Gabriel, pathetic, ignored, geeky Gabriel with his delusions of grandeur. He was beautiful when he was Zane, pretending to be the awkward, sweet man whose life he had extinguished only moments before Mohinder showed up at his doorstep. 

Beautiful, even now when he is Sylar. Evolution’s bastard mistake, Nature’s last-laugh, twisted joke at the expense of Mankind. He is beautiful. If Mohinder is not careful, he can lose himself in the depths of those rich brown eyes and never find his way out. He can look at the soft lines of that masculine yet, somehow delicate face and forget…

“So beautiful…” Sylar murmurs against his lips and then he sits up, hands dragging across Mohinder’s torso until they snag on his jeans. His hands close on the waistband and peel the jeans off his legs. Slowly, almost (if Mohinder didn’t know better) lovingly. He’s been close to no one since Maya. Because he fears himself now. Hates himself. He can risk no more. Sylar is never far anymore. No matter how far Mohinder runs, no matter how remote the area or dense the population, Sylar finds him. It’s why he returned to New York. It simply didn’t matter anymore. Running was only a waste of time and resources. 

Mohinder had almost convinced himself that human contact was something he could live without—that _Sylar_ is something he can live without—but every time Sylar is close, his body yearns for contact. _Craves_ it with a desperation that takes his breath. Like a junkie’s vein wants the needle, cold metal penetrating the flesh, exquisite pain and the red pearl bead of blood that comes like the first sunrise after long months of night. It is how much he wants to feel warm hands on him again, feel another’s heartbeat close to his, reminding him that he is still human and so he lifts his hips without prompting, even as the self-loathing rolls over him. Sylar laughs softly.

“Eager. That’s my good boy,” he murmurs, ghosting a kiss across Mohinder’s lips without moving from his current position. Mohinder shudders and when he closes his eyes a single tear escapes, sliding down to be absorbed into his hair. Sylar strokes his cheek and then lowers his head to catch the moisture on the tip of his tongue. He’s aware of Mohinder’s compounded guilt, that this isolation is his penance. But Sylar had believed that passion, whether it was brought on by arousal or fury, was far too appealing a look on the young professor to allow him languish in this self-imposed exile, shunning all physical contact…or physical pleasure. He presses a soft kiss to Mohinder’s lips. When he sits back again, he releases the hold on Mohinder’s body. 

Mohinder moves his arms experimentally before lowering them. He massages his aching wrists. He’ll have a ring of bruises tomorrow, over the ones Sylar left during his last visit. His legs are still pinned beneath Sylar’s physical weight, but now he is naked, exposed and vulnerable. It is hardly the first time Sylar has seen him such and it will not be the last and yet every time he has to resist the urge to cover up. He’d learned some time back that to do so would only result in him being pinned again and Sylar seemed to quite enjoy looking. He’s doing that now, brown eyes raking over Mohinder’s body as potently as a touch. Mohinder feels his cock twitch in response and his cheeks heat in embarrassment. 

He supposes he should be grateful that Sylar took the time to undress him. There have been days when he simply tore Mohinder’s clothes asunder to get to skin. The professor sits up, moving to wrap his arms around Sylar’s waist. He presses his head against the man’s torso. Sylar is so warm. Fingers card through Mohinder’s curls, smoothing then back from his forehead. 

It’s strange and so unnatural to him, that Sylar should exhibit anything akin to tenderness. So much so that when Sylar is gone, no trace left of him anywhere, Mohinder can almost convince himself it is all a dream. But the marks remain. The finger-shaped bruises on Mohinder’s hips, the soft bites on the insides of his thighs and the indentions of his nails on Mohinder’s chest. He tilts his head up to look at the other man. Sylar smiles slightly, something almost genuine, but too fragile to survive longer than a heartbeat. Sylar’s fingers stroke his face, smooth his hair and Mohinder’s hands fist in his the fabric of his shirt.

 

He drags Sylar’s shirt over his head and casts it aside even as his lips settle on the skin exposed to him. Sylar’s taller than he is, if only slightly. His body is pale, more so beside Mohinder’s darker tone. His chest bears a smattering of soft brown hair. Mohinder’s fingers glide through it and he feels Sylar shudder. In weaker moments, he revels at this, that he can make Sylar tremble like this. He takes a nipple between his teeth, Sylar’s fingers thread through his hair and he tugs Mohinder’s head back gently so he can look into those dark, nearly black eyes.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs. Mohinder tilts his head up, eyes fluttering as Sylar runs his thumb across his plump bottom lip. Sylar’s cock twitches as his lover’s tongue slips out to touch his thumb. Mohinder’s sobering up and Sylar will see the battle he so longs for, waged again in the abyss of those black eyes. He frames the young professor’s face in his hands and kisses him soundly. The first real kiss. Deep and slow and wet. 

He can taste the stale liquor in Mohinder’s mouth, mingled with something sweet and bitter that is unique to his lover. His hand closes on his lover’s shoulder, pushing Mohinder back without breaking the kiss. Mohinder goes willing, one hand on Sylar’s waist, the other on his bicep. The mattress creaks loudly as their combined weights collapse upon it.

“Yeah…” Sylar can hear the pounding beat of his lover’s heart. 

He breathes in. The scent of Mohinder’s skin is exotic, sweet and spice and musk and fragrant smoke. It is a scent that makes him think of the ancient temples, the scent of incense and fire. Sylar runs his tongue over the hot, dark skin and smiles at the comparison. How delightfully sacrilegious. Although a church would be far more appropriate, because what is Mohinder, if not a martyr? A sacrificial lamb on the altar of Sylar’s everlasting hunger. For power. For destruction. For sex. For submission. For dominance over every pathetic, feeble creature on this planet. Even, perhaps, for love. In his weaker moments. 

And maybe it is the taste of Mohinder’s skin, the scent and feel of it that keeps the desire for violence, for power, at bay…at least for a small time. His nipples are hard cinnamon candy beneath Sylar’s tongue, pebbled and tight and he teases them until Mohinder’s breath escapes in a gasping sob.

“Sylar…” His long fingers pass over Mohinder’s lips; feels the hot, moist breath against his fingertips.

“Hush.” 

“Please please stop. I-I can’t… Please.” Sylar moves his hand over Mohinder’s stomach and the pleasure is so terrible and intense that the dark, lean body arches up and a sharp, incoherent cry shakes the room.

“Stop this, Sylar. Please…stop this.” Sylar’s tongue traces the curve of his mouth.

“Why? Why should I stop, Mohinder? Your body’s physical reactions belie your words. So, tell me, why should I stop?”

“Because I cannot.” His voice sounds weak, broken and pathetic to his own ears. Sylar’s smile is sweetness and venom.

“I’m afraid, doctor, that I can’t stop either.” A sharp breath quakes through Mohinder’s chest, bursting forth like a death rattle. Frustration, need, helplessness. He sits up suddenly, forcing Sylar up as well. He hand reaches back to grab the back of Sylar’s head and yank him forward. The kiss is rough and it tastes of blood and heat. It catches him briefly off-guard and his hands flatten against Mohinder’s shoulders, meaning to push him away. But Mohinder just holds fast, does not let him go.

He learned long ago that past is not simply memory that fades with time. It is a living breathing entity all its own, feeding on the guilt and pain of the present. Mohinder has more than enough of those to last two lifetimes. He will never outrun it, just as he will never outrun Sylar. He had once believed in the universal connection of things, the theory that every life is connected to another. 

One thing that connected all things, all people. Shared experiences, pasts, pains and joys, defeats and triumphs, futures, destinies and fates. He had found comfort in the theory once, that a man is never truly alone. Now, the truth of it mocked him. Connections he could not escape, could not sever. Connections forged in blood and fire. Peter. Matt. Molly. Nathan. Claire. His father. His father, who had had a hand in turning awkward, oft disregarded Gabriel Gray into the ruthless, Darwinian Sylar. It was Sylar who had ended his father’s life. And what a great Greek tragedy the whole bloody story made. A man’s murderer, now his son’s lover.

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” Mohinder hisses, fingers digging into Sylar’s scalp with enough force to make his roots scream and the skin break beneath his fingernails. Mohinder’s murmuring a continuous litany of ‘murderous bastard’ and other vile obscenities against his lips.

“You can call me whatever you want,” Sylar breathes between kisses. “You want this as badly as I do.”

“I’ll see you in Hell yet,” Mohinder replies and bites hard at Sylar’s cheek. Sylar slams Mohinder back on the bed easily and covers the doctor’s body with his own. He constricts Mohinder’s airflow for a moment, causing a strained wheeze to shift past the man’s lips and his body to arch helplessly. His hands stroke up Mohinder’s arms before he intertwines their fingers over his head, holding them to the pillow. 

“I wouldn’t hold your breath, Doctor,” he replies, before releasing his telekinetic grip on the professor’s airway. Mohinder inhales sharply and coughs.

“Bastard,” he rasps.

“You already used that one,” Sylar replies before seizing those sweet lips. Keeping Mohinder pinned, he sits back on his knees. Mohinder turns his head to side, jaw tight with anger. As often as they clash and as Sylar triumphs, either by skill or sheer brute force, it is never what Mohinder could consider abasing. He makes his dominance known, but Sylar never actually hurts or humiliates him, mocks his weakened position. Even now, he knows Sylar could do a lot worse. It is entirely a contradiction and one that makes Mohinder uneasy when he allows himself to think on it for too long. 

 

Time twists into something unrecognizable, measured in the slow, slide of Sylar’s long fingers pressing into him, demanding, insistent. And his body yields as it always does. He loathes the soft sound that leaves Sylar’s throat, the low rumble of his approval. 

He lets the power flow as he pushes inside, one fluid thrust. Pain and pleasure wash over Mohinder in waves. It is a testament to how powerful Sylar really is, all the more because of the control he has over it. Were he ever to lose that control, it would be at the price of Mohinder’s life. 

Too much of this would fry his body from the inside. It’s like an electrical current that turns corporeal inside him. The extension of Sylar’s fingers, reaching deep beneath the flesh to scrap across every nerve-ending. The surge brings intense pleasure, leaves him shuddering and weak and his body in Sylar’s control. He can suspend orgasm for hours this way. Sylar employs this method when he is feeling playful and wants to hear Mohinder beg.

He knows it well by now. Sylar has mapped out this man’s body with lips and tongue and fingers. He can hear the blood in Mohinder’s veins, taste it on his tongue in every breath, bitter with the taste of adrenaline. The sweat slicking his skin. He can feel his heart; he can touch his fingers to the surface of that violently pounding organ. He can feel the lungs expanding against the protective ribcage with every harsh breath. Sylar has killed men this way, crushed their hearts in their chest without spilling their blood, torn gaping holes in their lungs that make them breathe blood. It was a power he reveled in when he first acquired it. But this, this is far more fascinating to him. To watch Mohinder’s body move beneath his fingers, like a finely tuned instrument bends to the will of an accomplished player. 

Sweat gathers in an incandescent pool in the hollow of Mohinder’s throat. The professor’s head is thrown back, his breath coming in helpless gasps.

“Gods! Sylar…please! Enough!” the words are barely audible, weak and rasping.

Mohinder bites into the pillow until he can feel the fabric rend between his teeth. Sylar’s hands don’t leave his body, but the pillow is being tugged away from him, all but flung across the room.

“I want to hear you,” Sylar breathes. An explosion of pleasure envelopes his body, like a cocoon. He can’t breathe. His chest is tight, lungs burning from the force of it and he finally cries out, a compact shout in what might be Russian or German. Sylar makes a mental note to ask where his beautiful doctor picked that up.

“That’s it. That’s it,” Sylar murmurs and bites his shoulder as he comes. Mohinder lies panting against the now sweat-soaked sheets. Sylar curls around him. The post-orgasmic state of bliss always makes him possessive, if not protective, of his tortured doctor. He curls his hand around the man’s hip, finding the sweaty dip and strokes along the curve. Mohinder feels the disgust and frustration well up inside him, warring with the desire of his body to just sink into his lover’s embrace. 

He hates himself for this. For never actually saying ‘no’. For the part of him that actually loves Sylar, that needs Sylar as much, it seems, as Sylar needs him. He feels the tears threatening again and when he closes his eyes as they fall, trickling down his nose. Sylar catches the scent of them, salty-sweet amidst the musk of sex and sweat.

“Don’t cry,” he says quietly against the soft, sweat-slick skin. Mohinder doesn’t confuse it for comfort. It’s an order.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Mohinder murmurs. “Why can’t you just kill me?” Sylar looks at him for a long moment. That is the question. The million dollar question, isn’t it? Why can’t he kill him? He’s come close enough times. In truth, Sylar’s life would be that much easier if Mohinder were pushing up daises…of course, he is a Hindu and they don’t bury their dead, do they? They cremate the dead. So, Sylar’s life would be easier if Mohinder were just…dust in the wind, as they say. 

So, why not kill him? Because, Sylar realizes, while life would be easier, it would it not be so interesting. They are fascinated by each other and repelled by each other in equal measure. Mohinder’s feelings alternate so often between deep, agonizing hate to equally anguished love, that he’s almost certain the professor can no longer tell the difference between the two. Sylar’s own feelings are…well, he has always been adept at compartmentalizing. So he whispers into the delicate shell of Mohinder’s ear, 

“Because I need you alive. Like it or not Mohinder, the only thing keeping me from destroying this world, is the fact that you are in it. I strongly suggest you accept your lot in life.”  

 

End

 


End file.
